


Jim Has A Box And Lindsey Has An Evil Hand; OR Plucky Young Okies Make Good

by biichan



Category: Angel: the Series, Profit
Genre: Crossover, Future Tense, M/M, Past Tense, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-13
Updated: 2007-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biichan/pseuds/biichan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three glimpses of a past, present, and future for two poor boys from Oklahoma that went and climbed the corporate ladder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jim Has A Box And Lindsey Has An Evil Hand; OR Plucky Young Okies Make Good

**Author's Note:**

> Written for boxofwrong's Profit thing-a-thon.
> 
> Prompt: _(Angel) Profit/Lindsey; You think your company is evil?_

He remembered the box. Of course he remembered the box. Remembered the blabbermouth sheriff telling his momma about the Stakowskis and marveling that no matter how low you were, there was always someone worse off than you. Maybe Lindsey had to put cardboard in the soles of his shoes—shoes which he hadn't even had until school had necessitated them—but at least he _had_ shoes. The Stakowski boy probably didn't even have _clothes_.

Somehow having the Stokowskis to look down on helped things. If Lindsey's daddy's farm had been failing longer than Lindsey was alive, at least none of the McDonald kids ever set anyone on fire.

Lindsey first met Jim on the day of the fire. Bobbi Stokowski had come over to cry on his momma and as soon as his momma had figured out what she was wailing about, she'd sent Lindsey out to the barn. Like he was a _baby_. He was ten years old and in _sixth grade_ and he was definitely not a baby.

So he was kicking stones and muttering under his breath and then he saw the boy, hunched in the shadows. "Who the hell are you?" Lindsey asked, not caring that his momma would wash his mouth out with soap. She wasn't there.

"No one," the boy said. "You didn't see me here."

Lindsey had just given him a Look. He'd been working on his Looks. He thought they were getting quite good.

"Jim," the boy said finally. He was older than Lindsey. It was hard to tell how much, cause he was so skinny, but he could have been in high school. He was wearing torn jeans and a dirty white tee shirt. He didn't have shoes on either.

All of a sudden, it seemed very clear to Lindsey. The clues had all fallen together in line, like dominoes. "Jim Stokowski?"

Jim blinked. "You're a smart kid," he said.

"They skipped me two grades," Lindsey bragged. It was nice to have someone new to tell that to.

"Congratulations," said Jim. He didn't sound that congratulatory. Mostly he sounded tired.

"Your momma's in the house with mine," Lindsey blurted out suddenly.

Jim nodded. "Thanks, kid."

Lindsey smiled. He didn't know why. He wasn't sure why his stomach hurt when Jim left later that night either.

~*~*~

Lindsey works the mail room. It's not the most glamorous of jobs, but it pays for room and board. Wolfram and Heart pay his tuition at Hastings and in return all he had to do was sell his soul. When he says that to people they think it's a euphemism. It's not. Souls are a hot commodity and Wolfram and Hart does a brisk business facilitating the buying, selling, and trading thereof.

Jim Stokowski's in LA to sell his.

Lindsey runs into Jim in the hall. He's on his way to Holland Manners' office with some random package: a brown paper parcel tied up with string and leaking disturbingly. Lindsey doesn't know what's in it and he doesn't particularly care. He only knows that the mail room guys don't get paid enough for this.

"Jim?" Lindsey says, blinking a little because it's been over a decade since Jim hid out in their barn but with that face how can it be anyone but Jim? And it must be Jim, from the expression of dawning recognition on the other man's face.

"Lindsey McDonald," Jim says and Lindsey nods in confirmation. Jim's with one of the special projects men, the bald one with the geeky glasses. Reed, that's his name. Nathan Reed.

"It's good to see you," says Lindsey and it is, it really is. Jim's dressed in a sharp suit, a power suit kind of suit, and it looks good on him. He's come up in the world, Jim has. Well, so has Lindsey.

They don't say anything for a minute, just look each other over. Jim's taller than he was at fifteen. Lindsey doubts he'd fit in the box anymore.

Reed clears his throat. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Profit," he says, a note of firmness undercutting his mild tone. Lindsey is suddenly acutely aware of the smelly, dripping package in his arms.

"Likewise," says Jim, shaking Reed's hand and smiling a toothy shark's grin. He turns to Lindsey. "We should get a drink together while I'm in LA."

Lindsey grins back, a wolf's grin. "I know just the place."

The place turns out to be a cozy little club one of Lindsey's mail room buddies recommended to him. Caritas. The host's a funky looking guy: green skin, red eyes, horns, the works. He likes to hear Lindsey play his guitar. Turns out that Jim likes to hear Lindsey's guitar too. He pushes him up against the wall in the back of the club, sticks his hands down Lindsey's jeans and brings him off in three quick strokes that leave Lindsey gasping for more.

Ever the bastard, Jim leaves him there.

~*~*~

Lindsey won't see Jim for years after that. When he does, it will be in a park where Lindsey is busking. Lindsey will sing "LA Song" and Jim will throw a hundred dollar bill in Lindsey's guitar case. He'll take Lindsey home and fuck him, until Lindsey yowls and bites hard enough into the pillow to tear a hole in the case. Jim will be very smug about this.

It'll be a slow day for Jim—no frame-jobs to plan and his stepmother thankfully out of town—so he won't kick Lindsey out of bed right away. Instead—wonders of wonders—the two will actually talk. And this is what they will say:

"What happened to Wolfram and Hart?" Jim will ask, turning to Lindsey.

Lindsey will shrug. There'll be too much to tell by then. Better just to summarize. "I stayed with them a while. Passed my bar exam, joined special projects, worked my way up to vice president, then quit and hit the road. What about Gracen &amp; Gracen?"

"Still with them," Jim will say, with a little shrug. "Got vice president, finally, after working my _ass_ off. Couple of self-righteous jerks on my tail."

Lindsey will snort softly. "Aren't there always." He won't want to think of the ones—one in particular—that he's left behind, though the line of Jim's brow will make him think of a certain nemesis that never did fuck him, not matter how much Lindsey wanted him to (though he did eventually fuck Lindsey's woman. The memory of that is still fresh and painful.) "Have you tried using a sledgehammer?"

"No," Jim will say, "but I'll keep that in mind." They'll smile then, wolf smile to shark smile. "You ever think of picking up a little extra protection?" Jim will say after a moment. "I know a guy that does some pretty nice mystical tattoos."

Lindsey will shake his head. "It's not a bad idea." He'll need it, he'll think. He'll have enough dirt on Wolfram and Hart to think they won't look _that_ hard for him, but it wouldn't hurt to have extra insurance. They'll be others, too, that he won't want to find him.

"No," Jim will say, "it isn't." He'll look at Lindsey then, with those dark eyes that see too much. His eyes were like that the day in the McDonalds' barn too.

Lindsey will nod. "Have I ever told you," he'll say, "that I have an Evil Hand?" He'll set it on Jim's leg.

Jim will laugh, a long hearty laugh, and he'll brush the hair from Lindsey's face. "No," he'll say, "but you can show me."


End file.
